


Evening the Score

by TheWhiteLily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Inexplicit canon torture, Jeesh do I have to tell you everything?, Obviously he was thinking about John, What was Sherlock thinking in Serbia?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: Occasionally Sherlock finds the right moment to run through the scoresheet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the fan_flashworks "Keeping Score" challenge.

One.  Sherlock had started it all off, with the limp.

_Tell me, intruder!_

Then one—ah!—One-All.  The cabbie, obviously.

One-Two.  In Soo Lin’s apartment, John's words had sent off Zhi Zhu, without finishing the job on Sherlock.

Someone was asking him questions.  Irrelevant; he was busy.

Two-Two—ngh!—yes, two-three.  Call Shan a point each, since John had only been there as a substitute for Sherlock.

Three-Four.  The Golem—a point each again.  Sherlock had been worse than useless in that fight, but he’d brought John the gun he needed, even if it hadn’t done any good.

 _You_ will _talk, pig-dog!_

Three-Five.  No, wait for it… ngh!  Ah!  Four-Six.  At the pool.  The little nod, that had given him permission to do what he had to.  Perhaps it hadn’t made a difference.  But the prospect of imminent death had certainly been a factor in changing Moriarty’s oh-so-changeable mind.

Four-Seven.  The Americans in The Woman’s house.  John had thought his revenge was only for Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock’s rage over a few scrapes and bruises had begun to cool once the man's ribs started fracturing on the second trip out the window.  Dragging him up the the stairs a further three times had been on the fumes of _I’ll believe you any second now_.  
  
Five-Seven.  Opening the safe.  Taking them down.

Five-Eight.  Five-Nine, really.  Maybe… ugh! Yes, all right, Five-Ten.  The Hound drug had clearly had an unfortunately enhanced effect on a superior mind.  No wonder it had taken Henry so long to fall victim to it.

Five-Eleven.  The superintendent.

Five-Twelve, uh!  The escape.

Five-Thirteen, nnngh.  Hostage, that works.  The score slipping further and further away from him.

Five-Fourteen.  The bus, risking John’s life to prove he was clever.

Five-Fifteen.  The rooftop, Moriarty’s assassins staring down sniper scopes at all Sherlock’s friends, just because they _were_ his friends.

Six-Fifteen, o-oh.  The fall.

Six-Sixteen.  John’s voice. _Nnngh, Jesus no._  Was there anything that could _ever_ balance that?

 _You broke in here for a reason_ , says the voice, pausing in its work for a moment.

Of course he did.  Sherlock fumbles to get the count ready to drown out another blow to his body before it can reach _him_... but the rest is easy, meaningless.  The numbers are lining up on the other side of the scoreboard now: John safe at home, Sherlock going in alone again and again to take down Moriarty’s network.  Guns, knives, explosions, near-misses.  Direct hits.  Lying, dying, feeling only a fierce gratitude that at least John wasn't with him.  Waking, unexpectedly alive, to the kindness of a stranger and an inexplicable loneliness.  Going on to find this, the very last puzzle piece.  This place: Fifteen-Sixteen.

 _Just tell us why and you can sleep_ , says the voice, and draws a length of metal pipe (sound, speed, and the glimpse of the table from earlier) back over its shoulder, the air shifting (long, thin, heavy), the smell of iron in the air (perhaps the pipe, perhaps his own blood) and this is going to _hurt_ without the distraction of his hazily constructed mental defence. _Remember sleep?_

And then Sherlock spots the shoes.  Impeccably costumed of course, genuine soldier’s boots, but with the outstretched soles scuffed in a very specific way for Sherlock to recognise.  Mycroft.

He's being extracted.  He's going home: Sixteen-Sixteen.  One more miracle.

The cracked ribs ache and throb in his chest as Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“You used to work,” he whispers, low and shaky, but clearly enough for the torturer to hear the words, “in the navy.  You had an unhappy love affair there, and…”


End file.
